Reflections of the Mind
by Phantom Shyraz
Summary: (Poirot Cafe Super Short) To win a contest requires training. How you train and who the opponent is, that is a matter of the mind. -ONE SHOT-


Disclaimer: The works of Detective Conan belongs to Gosho Aoyama-sensei.

A/N: In celebration of the new Conan Movie (not that I've seen it yet...) and in response to Poirot Cafe Theme, this particular piece came up. Enjoy!

Theme: Train

* * *

 _Discipline_

The words were engraved in both his mind and on his body, though figuratively rather than physically. He calmed his breath, closed his eyes, as he steadied his grip on the bamboo sword held at a semi-relaxed grip, and stood at ready for his opponent.

 _Observe_

His opponent was another faceless figure of his imagination. A blackened face, forgettable structure, average height, and dressed in casual clothes befitting of an average Joe. He knew his opponent would not attack him personally. His opponent attacks others, most he would not have heard of, some as a passing acquaintance. Fewer still are those related to him as friends. There were a few rare times when those he cared about, those exceptionally close to him, were attacked, resulting in the spilling of blood. Just thinking about it brought a storm of unwanted rage and anger to his mind.

 _"Calm yourself._ " The silence of the dojo allowed his thoughts to take a voice of its own. A voice without his distinctive Kansai accent. A voice of reasoning and strangely recognizable.

"An' ya'd know all 'bout calmin' don't ya." He muttered. He saw in his mind's eye, his opponent took a single step towards him, the black bamboo sword held high overhead, ready to strike.

He tightened his grip in response, waiting for the moment when the sword comes down. Squaring his jaws, he slide a step forward, his bare foot barely catching onto the rough tatami floors. He held his sword to receive the blow, taking the defensive stance instead of his usual course of attack. He knew that if he wanted to win, he would have to lure his opponent to attack, to make a mistake, and to let his opponent reveal its own flaws.

Just as his opponent's sword was about to meet his, the voice in his head echoed.

" _It's not about winning or losing._ "

The bamboo sword in front of him turned to one of steel. The silvery metallic surface glinting under an imaginary spotlight. It sliced through his bamboo sword as it made contact. Like a knife through butter, soundlessly and effortlessly, it glided through the bamboo structure. As it was an imaginary opponent with an imaginary blade, his own sword was not cut in half. But he could still feel the coldness from the flashing steel, as though penetrating his own skin. He took a sharp breath and a step back, for once, and retreated from the attack. He recognised that this was not an opponent he could win over easily.

"In a real match, there's only a victor and a loser." He muttered as he lowered his sword to a resting position. "An' only the person who perfected his skills can be called a winner." The shape of his shadowy imaginary opponent warped and shifted, shrinking in height to be somewhat similar to his own. The body slimmed down and the clothes changed to match the new body type. The shirt a blinding white in the darkness, only to be covered by the open blue suit jacket and matching dark pants. The hand of the person clutched at the spare fabric of his shirt, with panting breaths as though he was struggling.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, to rid himself of the image, and hoping that his mental voice would not reply. Unfortunately, the voice have a mind of its own.

" _There's no such thing as a perfect person. Even a detective is only a single person._ " The whispers faded as his eyes cleared. The dojo bathed in a mixture of oranges and red under the setting sun. He turned his head to look out the window. The sun itself looked ominous.

"'S like bathin' the world in blood." The tip of his sword dipped, no longer having an opponent to fight. His eyes were involuntarily drawn to his left hand, now hanging casually without the encumbrance of the sword. He flipped it over to the back, revealing the thin dark line at the center where the scab has healed. "Grim remembrance to closed cases."

Sighing, he knew his mind had already drifted away from his initial intention of coming into the dojo. He turned towards the small shrine located near the ceiling, hanging above one of the written plaques. Bowing low, he paid the required respect.

His eyes trailed from the wooden shrine to the black writing.

 _Patience_

There was a reason why he chose to come into the dojo at home even after the vigorous practice session in school. He had felt antsy, as though something was wrong. The words written by his father's hand was trying to remind him to stave his hot-blooded nature, to think before he rushed off.

"There's only one reason for the unease." He muttered, stowing the bamboo sword at a nearby cupboard near the entrance of the dojo. Carefully, he pulled at the string around his neck, lifting the small cloth bag to eye level. He stared at the bag, ordering it to give an answer, or a solution, to his unease. The omamori remained silent.

"Now I just need a reason..." dropping the cloth bag and letting it rest back on his chest, he walked back towards his room for a change of clothes.

Upon his desk, his mobile was flashing. The tiny light beckoning him. He entered the password and opened the message. A smile crept up on his face.

"'ere's my answer." He made quick work to reply the message.

' _I'll definitely bring ya to the Okonomiyaki this time._

 _Hattori._ '

He took his change of clothing, humming a meaningless tune as he headed to the showers. All the while, planning a surprise. On the way, he passed by a calligraphy scroll with the words _The strong doesn't win, but the one who wins is strong_.

"An' we shall see who's stronger this time, in a match without victors."

 **-END-**


End file.
